and another bit.

So far, so good, but I'm still about a day behind my own schedule - I'm going to carry on until I've brought it up to, and beyond, where I should be - current count is about 19,500.

Nine: A drink in the Turks
And did those feet in ancient times walk upon England�s pastures green?
William Blake, Jerusalem
In which Dan and Taylor manage to stagger up London Street and into the old coaching inn; They see something interesting; then they drink more, and the world begins to dissolve into metaphysical forms. That, or they�re beginning to feel the effects of the booze.
We crossed the bridge and the IDR, but not without some diversion. First off, another beggar came pelting hell for leather over the bridge, waving a can of Park Bench Special lager and shouting his head off. I thought he was coming at us first all, but he dashed past (with a helping shove from Taylor) and jumped into the pile of beggars we�d just gone by. Then he went thug on them, flailing with his fists and feet while they scattered. He was so angry that he seemed to be literally foaming at the mouth, and he was incoherent � just cursing and making enraged noises. We continued: On our right was the edifice of the Oracle, with the Kennet flowing sulkily through its centre. The IDR was a slow crawl of hot, tired, home-going traffic, heading from the flyover towards Queen�s road. The metal walls of the shopping centre�s car park bulged outwards, frozen grey sails gleaming dully in the dusty sunlight. We waited for the traffic lights to change, and watched three women, about twenty years old, across the other side of the road, bellowing their heads off � God knows why. They were loud enough to be heard above the sound of the traffic. Fuck, they could have stopped the traffic, they were so ugly. They were swigging from Bacardi Breezers and tagging the side of the Central Reading Youth Provision building, under the mural of black history. As we watched, though, a police car came hurtling westwards, lights and siren on, and they scattered. We finally managed to cross, then we went up the hill to the Turk�s.
It was quiet at that time of day: Being July as well, the uni crowd weren�t there. A couple were sitting on the bench outside, and within there were no more than ten or twelve, scattered around the deep sofas in the low-ceilinged front room, or playing pool at the back. I bought a pair of ales and some crisps, then we put our feet up on the sofa next to the fag machine. Another football match was playing on the telly in the corner, but no-one was watching it. From behind the table in front of the window came a deep, content snoring. A pair of feet were attached to it as well.
�I am starting to get very drunk, I believe�, I said.
�Good. Crisps were a good idea, though � they�ll soak it up a bit�.
Taylor ripped open a pack and started picking through them.
�Why can�t pubs in this country do proper bar snacks? You have the choice of crisps or bags of peanuts, or, if they�re really posh, bowls of peanuts on the bar which are covered in piss from people not washing their hands properly. It should be more like Spain � lots of tapas and stuff. I don�t want to eat a full-metal dinner when I�m on the razzle, I�d rather snack.�
�Turkey�s good for that, too � mezes and things. And raki. Have you tried that? Like arack, but smoother.�
Taylor frowned, trying to recall.
�Mm, yes, I did, when I was going through Cappadocia during a freezing cold winter. It was some restaurant, had a strange name�.the SOS, that�s it. We ate something delicious involving bits of lamb and chillis and rice from a big kind of wok, and drank raki. Bloody good stuff, as I recall. And the restaurant! At the end of a row of shops, all closed for the winter. There was mein host, who was working as boss, waiter and chef; While he cooked, he came out and in a frantic mix of Turkish, German, French and English, he�d tell us about the food and give us platters of bread and bottles of wine from his own vineyard. The place was kept warm by a huge wood-burning stove in the middle of the room, and there were those incongruous posters on the wall � you know, vast alpine scenes, crying gypsy children and boss-eyed kittens. The tables had cheap plastic cloths with a red and white check pattern and cigarette burns. The food was damn good.�
�I think I know the place � in Goreme, yeah? You know, the village in the middle of a valley of giant rock cocks which people used to live in? And the owner � round and bald with a big dark mustache, and chain-smoking.�
�That�s the guy and the place, not that I got much of a chance to look around � I was back on the road the evening afterwards. When did you go there?�
�Not long after you and I went our separate ways. You know, I worked my way northwards until I hit the Black Sea, then I kind of followed it back round to the Marmara, then on to the Mediterranean.�
�We must have missed each other by a bit then, because I was there not long after we�d split up, too.�
I felt suddenly energised.
�Ah, man, that�s incredible! We both end up at the same restaurant in the same village in the middle of nowhere � we probably just missed each other by a few days! That�s some coincidence.�
�Well, it isn�t really, not if you think of it; after all, we missed each other, and Goreme, despite its size, is a big tourist draw.�
�Just our luck then, that we didn�t meet.�
�Hell, what does it matter now? Here we are, together again.�
We supped our beers.
�So, what did you think of it?� I asked.
�The place? Well, I didn�t see giant rock cocks as you put it. Travelling through it was weird � a landscape of fists and fingers with caves dug into them. I walked up to this place with a big kind of castle literally dug out of this one great knarled hand of stone. From the top of it, you could see for miles, and the land looked like a dreadfully lined and wrinkled pair of hands.�
An image of the weird landscape of Cappadocia came to mind then � a place of deeply gouged valleys, seemingly arid but incredibly fertile, dominated by a volcano on the horizon.
�I still imagine it as Valley of the Phallus, though.�
� Well, perceptions alter from person to person, don�t they? Let�s take this place, Reading. How do you see it?�
I was slightly nonplussed by this.
�Um, well, it�s home�.my town. It�s OK, I guess. Pretty boring, if anything. Reputation for being a bit rough in the evenings. Not the prettiest of places either.�
� Do you remember when we were in Cairo that time? How did you see that?�
I thought for a moment.
�Seething. Fascinating. Ancient. Crazy streets and mad traffic. Great food.�
�How would the average Cairene react to Reading, do you think?�
�OK, I see your point, Taylor � but they wouldn�t find it interesting.�
�Maybe, maybe not. But they would look around, see an infrastructure that works, electricity and water that work all the time, and jobs and opportunities galore. And that�s pretty much Heaven for some poor bastard from some of the places we�ve visited. It all depends how you see where you are, doesn�t it? And that, Dan, is where you�re having problems at the moment � you�re in a trough, a bad pocket. Yet what you�ve shown me so far has been good, even if it has been limited to bar interiors.
�Try living here through the winter. Try to get an affordable house. Hell, Taylor, I lived better abroad.�
�Were you worried about housing then? Of course you weren�t,� he said. �So perhaps that circumstance has changed. If you don�t like it so much, why are you here?�
I had absolutely no answer to that. I shrugged and carried on puffing on a cigarette. He carried on, saying something about the reason why he hadn�t decided to come back. Good friend though he was, Taylor could also be incredibly annoying with his general, Zen calmness, something I�d forgotten. I half-listened to him, nodding as necessary, and looked round the bar. The pair of feet were still snoring happily; the couple from the bench walked in, arm in arm, gazing at each other; and there, in the corner by the fireplace, was the Fucking Weirdo from earlier on. He still had his nose in a notebook, but briefly glanced up and caught my eye. He grimaced, then went back to his perusal. I wondered whether he was actually following me, but decided that he probably wasn�t. After all, I couldn�t have been the only person at a loose end on a hot Friday afternoon in July in Reading, could I? I zoned back to what Taylor was saying.
��but if and when I return for good, how I see what I�m doing will be important. Am I in a cage or out in the open? Free or stuck? You know what I mean, Dan, you�ve seen it as often as I have. People run away abroad under the illusion that it�s somehow liberating, that they can escape all their problems. It just happens to turn out that what they�re mostly trying to run away from is themselves. And that,� he gulped down his beer, �is impossible. Oh, you can find yourself in an Ashram in Delhi, or up the side of an Andean mountain, sure, if you�ve been so bloody stupid as to lose yourself in the first place, but you can equally do it in Milton Keynes. The location acts as a nice backdrop for the metaphysical adventure, that�s what I�m saying.�
�Yeah, but I�d hardly have done what I�ve done if I�d stayed here, would I?�
�I wonder � for its size this place is remarkably cosmopolitan. No, the physical landscape is inextricably linked with what�s going on in the soul. Perceive where you are as a dour, miserable, wet place, and you�re likely to be dour, miserable and wet. But if you see that what is around you is exotic, mysterious and filled with peril and opportunity, then what happens to your perspectives? Reading can be every bit as exotic as, say, Bangkok; It depends where you�re coming from.�
�If I hadn�t been in Delhi when you were, we�d never have met.�
Taylor picked up his glass and motioned to me to finish mine. He smiled.
�True, that was serendipitous. And it would have been a tragedy never to have met. But then, think about all those others you�ve never met and never will. Another one?�
He sauntered over to the bar and I mulled over what he was talking about. I got the gist of what he was saying, and realised that he was, in his own way, trying to buck me up. The truth was, I realised how much I�d missed his perspective, and how much I needed someone to bounce ideas, problems and worries off of. It was true; while I had a few other friends here, I�d effectively isolated myself for the last few months ad become enveloped in my own introspective gloom, hating what I was doing, where I was, and even myself. Taylor had come like a little gleam of light showing through black clouds.
The snoring had stopped, and I saw the feet shift. A hand slowly appeared, reaching for the back of the bench. The fingers reached it, gripped, and hauled into view a vaguely-familiar, pale-faced man of about fifty, with long strands of white hair and a few days� growth of grizzled grey beard. He propped himself so that I could see most of his head and torso, then rubbed his face vigorously, as if to scrub a stain off it. His clothes were deeply rumpled, covered in crisp crumbs and stained with God knows what. He caught sight of me, beamed and half-bellowed,
�Alright! Are ya winnin�?�
�Alright, mate. How are you yourself?�
�Not bad, not bad, all the better for me beauty sleep.� He gave a harsh, sour-breathed laugh that I could smell from where I was sat, then clambered up and staggered off towards the bogs. Taylor was coming back with a brace of pints; the man smiled and half-bowed as he went past.
�Christ, what is it with old blokes in this place? Don�t they do anything but drink?� Taylor demanded when he sat down again. �That one could have done with a bath or ten as well. Do you know him?�
�Don�t think so, although something rings a bell.�
�I�ll tell you, Dan, I didn�t think I�d miss this country much while I was away, but ale is one thing I started craving after a while.�
�Yeah, that and curry. And beans. And Fish and Chips.�
�And Marmite.�
�All that stuff. I�d thought I�d gorge myself on it all when I got back.�
�But you didn�t, because now you can have it whenever you want.�
�Well, Metaphysics are all fine and well, but they can�t beat an empty stomach. Hunger proves what reality is.�
�Is the hunger real? And if so, is what you eat real?�
�Oh balls, Taylor � is our increasing drunkenness real? Is our booze real? Course it fucking is.� And I proceeded to demonstrate our current state of reality by taking a gulp, and therefore make us increasingly real in a world that was starting to look wobbly. The old guy, meanwhile, wobbled back to his bench, slopped another beer onto the table, and resumed his recumbent position.
�I still hold by what I said earlier. Where you are should have no effect on who you are, but it generally does. If you�re down, try to look at your position in a different light.�
�Yeah, but you�re also dragged down or pulled up by whoever you�re with. You can be miserable anywhere, anytime when you�re with the wrong person.�
�But isn�t that my point? Now look at those two over there,� he said, gesturing to the couple with yet another cigarette, �do you think they are looking at this bar in the same way and with the same attitude as us? Of course not; they have eyes for themselves and the place has become immaterial. Now let�s fast-forward a few years. They�ve been married a while, and intimacy has stripped them of illusions. They come here again; Do they see it as they did on this day? Again, no.�
�Well said, sir!�, barked the man. He waved his glass at us, spilling some of the contents, then wiped his face again. �Metaphysical disquisition in a pub, that�s the stuff! And my kind of conversation, too.�
Taylor looked at him with a kind of weary amusement. �So, are you real, or just a product of my over-worked imagination?� he enquired.
The man laughed his fetid laugh again. �I may ask the same of you � I know I�m real, at least; And since I have been a regular here for more years than I�m too dishonest to admit to, while you seem to have magically appeared, as it were, I�m inclined to think it�s you as is the spook.�
His mentioning that he was a regular made me suddenly realise who he was � Blake, the Turk�s Head�s resident alcoholic, who I hadn�t seen for years. When I�d returned, I�d assumed he was dead, as it always seemed to be on the cards. It was well-known that his intention was to drink so much that, come his death, there�d be no need to embalm him, and he hoped his body would be allowed to be propped in a corner of the pub somewhere.
�It�s Blakey isn�t it?� I said. �How�s it going?�
�It�s me indeed, sure as I�m sure of anything. Still in one piece. Still drinking. Heh!�
And he raised his glass once again.
I explained who Blake was, then Taylor said, �So, do you live here then?�
�Explain �here�,� muttered Blake over his glass, before putting it down and belching loudly and looking pleased with himself. �Whatever. This here�s my bench anyhows. And you two? I don�t believe I�ve ever had the pleasure before, but then I�m not so sure of anything, what with my brain mostly bein� on holiday with my liver.�
�Dan here�s a local man. I�m travelling through; He�s my host today.�
�What is it, a pub crawl or something of its ilk?�
�That�s the way it�s turning out,� I chipped in. �We started off in Emmer Green and we�re working our way round the town.�
Blake huffed. �God, that�s too much like hard work,� he said. �Why move on, when you�ve got yourself nicely settled?� He turned to Taylor. �And you say you�re a traveller? Other countries and stuff, I suppose.�
�That�s the measure of it, I guess,� grinned Taylor. �Call it an extremely extended pub crawl�.
�Nah, you want to stay in one place. Why should I get up an go elsewheres? It all comes through here, eventually. What I can see with my imagination is enough, and sometimes more than enough. What I can�t see, I got telly for.�
�But don�t you want to go and actually see other places?�
�What for? You ever been to Spain?�
We both nodded. �Well�, he continued, �I once went there. Torremolinos. That was back when I was married, way back in the seventies. Anyhow, I�d saved for ages for us to go. It wasn�t like it is now � getting on a plane to Spain was like going to the Jungle in Africa must be like now. Anyhows, I�m saving and saving and all the time I�m thinking what it�ll be like � you know, exotic food, paella and so on, and unknown drinks, guitars and flamenco and all. I was dreaming of it every night. And what happens when we finally get there? It�s the bloody same as this place, but with more sunshine � fat blokes in vests drinking Watneys, egg and chips and bacon for breakfast, and your bloody neighbour in the apartment next to yours. And I hardly saw any Spanish, except for waiters. I was so disappointed that I came back and I�ve never gone back again. If I want an holiday now, all I do is pack the suitcases up here in me head, and I�m there. Bloody cheaper too!�
He drained his glass, then continued.
�Mind you, I heard what you said about how you see where you are � think I understood most of it. Now, I do like me beer, as perhaps you�ve noticed, and it, I think, makes the world a happier place. Many�s the time, coming from here late at night, I swear I�ve seen angels sitting in the trees and on the rooftops, whispering and rustling their wings; That, and demons crawling from the sewers. Mind you, I�ve also seen a bin bag turn into a talking dog and back again.�
He sighed, looked into the depths of his glass and belched again, the look of enormous self-satisfaction crawling across his face once more.
�Anyhows, I think I need another doze. Nice to meet ya,� and so saying, he slipped down out of sight once more, and before long the contented snore resumed.
�If we don�t get any food soon, we�re going to end up like him,� commented Taylor. �How about after we finish these we go and grab something quick to eat?�
�Fine by me,� I said. �we�ll head back towards town.�
We watched the football match for a bit, then lurched out of the door for the next part of the evening.

A diary entry
Another day. I�m itching to get going, to move, move, move, yet I can�t. Feel like I�m stuck in a coffin with a fire inside, eating all my insides. I want to hand in my notice at work. I�m fed up with all the shit that Dave fucking Pullen keeps coming up with � today, he had me stuck in the archives all day � really boring. It�s all really boring. The only good thing is that it�s Friday � the weekend! Bad thing is, it�ll soon be Monday again, and again work. I want to leave.
I�m seeing Jack again after I finish this and get myself ready. I don�t know why. He�s already put me through so much shit. After the bastard stood me up �cos I was playing football. Sorry babe� , I thought about dumping him, but what will I do? If he had even half an inkling of what he does to me�.mmm. But he�s still a bastard. My bastard. He�s promised to be down at Bar Med, but I�m still going to phone him, make sure. At least Leticia and the girls are out and all, so I�ve got them as back up if it all goes pear-shaped. If he does �forget�, that�s it. I�ll dump him, and see how he likes it. It�s not as if there aren�t other blokes around. Mark from Claims was eyeing me up today. He�s pretty fit. Put it like this, I wouldn�t kick him out of bed. Of course, Jack would get so bloody jealous if he caught me just eyeing up another bloke. Bloody men, why are they such kids? I thought they at least grew up a bit. Tonight I�m, going to wear the red dress and these gorgeous boots I found in the Oracle � fifty quid, but worth it! I�ll give Jack a right eyeful�and if he doesn�t turn up, I�ve half a mind to let someone else have a right eyeful, and more.
Right, time to get ready. Wish me luck! X

Ten: Smoke and mirrors
Last night I met him on the stair, the man who wasn�t there.
David Bowie, the man who sold the world
More Authorial interruption.
I knew the previous mini chapter would draw you in; that�s why it�s pasted there. There is something incredibly tempting and salacious about somebody else�s diary, or private letter, some woman�s bedroom musings; Why else was Richardson�s Pamela such a hit when it first came out? Epistolary novels, or ones in the forms of a diary, are always going to be best-sellers; people are curious about that first-hand view, the way a character thinks and feels in a way that is alien to our own experience; we get the comfort of riding within another�s mind, seeing the world through a different set of eyes, and the transformation of the mundane into the magical. This is what the average reader yearns for � a kind of escape. However, as Taylor so astutely noted earlier on, it is impossible to escape oneself � there can only be temporary refuge. Now, the novel is possibly a more wholesome and less expensive shelter than drink, drugs or moving abroad, but it is only ever a temporary respite from the mundane � eventually, we must all re-enter this world, that, by mutual acceptance, we call reality. The Author�s job is to make this escape as satisfyingly �real� as is possible, but any careful inquiry will reveal that even the best laid structure is immensely fallible. Now, here�s me in my clown�s cap, waving at you and reminding you that what you�re reading is no more than a story. Take the first person narrative we�ve chosen for Dan, and compare it with the diary entry; When push comes to shove, which is really the most plausible? Honestly? The latter, of course, but even then, it�s still fictive. For a first person narrative to be truly convincing, it would need to be:
a) so full of action, sensation, flashes of insight, moments of introspection, lack of thought one moment, concentrated bursts, snatches of conversation heard and bits of this here, there and everywhere, plus frequent thoughts of sex if it is a male narrator and shoes if it is female, that it would be utterly impossible to follow a plot, or
b) Reduced. To short, snappy sentences. With little sketching in of what people said or did. Cut down to the bare minimum. Badly.
The fact of the matter is that life is not linear, it does not follow a story arc. The Author�s task, as well as having a satisfactory plot structure, must also tease out a comprehensible storyline, a tenuous thread with a beginning, a middle and an end. This is difficult if you don�t know where you�re going. As a character in this creation, I absolve myself of all responsibilities for character and plot development � I�m just the spectator, jotting it down.
Let�s take another example of implausible story structure � Emily Bronte�s Wuthering Heights. The whole thing is supreme contrivance from start to finish, and as a book, it should only be taught to those who already understand what a book should look like. For a start, it appears to consist of two immense diary entries, or letters, handily titled �1801� and �1802�. If they are diary entries, what else did Lockwood do for the rest of the year? �1801. Later. Went to the coaching inn and felt lonely.�? If they are letters, who to? Whatever they are, they show that the narrator, Lockwood, seems to be possessed of an almost supernatural memory for dialogues and situations, as does the narrator within the narrator, Nelly Dean. Not only that, but everyone can mimic Joseph in exactly the same way; observe Lockwood�s copying of his speaking style, through to Nelly�s (who, obviously, is Lockwood copying Nelly�s copy of the original), and finally to Isabella�s , which is Nelly, telling Lockwood some sixteen years after the event, copying Isabella�s accent copying Joseph�s, which in turn is Lockwood copying Nelly, as written by the real author, and is then interpreted by us. That�s Joseph at five removes � ourselves, Bronte, Lockwood, Nelly, then Isabella � and still we keep a perfect copy of his bizarre accent? Then there is all the weird and coincidental stuff � the dog being strung up on a washing line, the visitation by Cathy�s wraith, Nelly keeping a letter for twenty years, presumably always on her person, just in case some morose southern milksop gentleman comes to pay her a visit one winter. In spite of the absurdities of its structure, however, Wuthering Heights works, though God knows how: Given the distinctly (even for its time) old-fashioned structure, it still manages to entertain, keep the reader enthralled and the Yorkshire moors full of Japanese tourists. Another example is the utterly ridiculous Dracula, which has to rank as one of the worst-written popular novels in history. Bram Stoker clearly just gives up on the individual diary structure halfway through, and has a single voice instead, even though it sounds exactly the same as Harker�s, Van Helsing�s and all the others. And the story is saturated with the author�s character, worries, fears and obsessions. I personally regard it as almost unreadable, save for the fascination and fun to be had in delving into the writer�s personality.
Dan doesn�t strike me as being the most alert of characters, so how is it possible that he has managed to recall so much of his day with Taylor? It must be recall, after all; He�s clearly telling a tale � we�re not even experiencing this first hand. As such, it is all smoke and mirrors, but while you�re enjoying it, who am I to complain?

Eleven: on the brink
Sumer is icomen in, lhude sing cuccu!
William of Malmesbury, written in Reading Abbey ca. 1265
Our two heroes stagger back towards whence they came; They search out food; an encounter with the Oracle.
We came back down London Street. Taylor was alert, paying attention to all the houses and shops and businesses that lined it.
�So where next, Dan?�
�Well, let�s just head back into town and grab something there, shall we? Needn�t be much; just a burger or something, yeah?�
�Sounds OK to me�that�s quite a funky little house..�
This was said about an old Tudor beamed cottage, twisted by age, just by a restaurant and an alleyway.
�What�s down the alley?�
�Dunno. I�ve never been down there.�
�Shame on you, Dan � this is your stomping ground, and there are things you don�t know about it? Come on.�
He led the way down it. Graffitti and tags were sprayed on the walls, and a few spliff butts lay scattered on the ground. It opened up into a small road with an old, regency-type building on the right and a more modern terrace of houses on the left. There was a church more or less directly ahead.
�What church is that?�
�I think it�s St. Giles.�
We ambled towards it, Taylor taking in the spire, the building and its attendant graveyard.
�Now this I like � it�s as if a bit of the countryside moved to town.� He frowned suddenly. �Except�what the hell is that bloody stench?�
�Smells like Blakey�s been having a party here with some of his less salubrious mates�.
It really was a gut-churningly foul smell, and I was probably right in my surmise. Closer inspection of the graveyard showed that it was littered in cider cans and bottles, cheap gut-rot whisky, food wrappers and splattered with vomit. The whole place had been mired by alkies. Someone had tagged one of the graves with the word �Nestor�. What had appeared quite a pleasant little churchyard was, in close-up, appalling.